Things That Never Happened
by SJlikeslists
Summary: This is a collection of one shots for which I can offer no explanation.
1. How Mitch Never Met Heather

Disclaimer: _Jericho_ is not mine.

"Come in!" The voice hidden behind the door adorned with a nameplate that read Rev. H. D. Lisinski called in answer to her knock.

Heather pushed it open and smiled at the pile of papers her father's desk was hidden under. "I'll never understand how you find anything in that," she commented as she did on most occasions when she stopped by his office.

"I make do, sweetie," he smiled back. "Are you headed out?"

"Yeah," she replied. "It's a long drive, and I want to stop by the Jenkins' on way out of town."

"You didn't have to come home for spring break, but I appreciate that you did," he told her standing to give her a kiss on the forehead.

"Where else would I go?"

"Probably nowhere that I would actually want to know about. Drive carefully," he commanded.

"I always do," she assured him.

"Tell Martha hello for me, and if you think about it, tell Jenna that her new books for her Sunday School class came in today."

"I'll tell her," she promised reaching out a hand to catch a folder that was sliding off the edge as her father brushed by it to sit back down.

"Nice save," he complimented.

She perused the papers as she straightened them back into the folder. "Is this the one that happened over by Jericho? The one where that boy was killed?" She asked tapping the newspaper clipping about a trial that was stapled to the front with her finger as she handed the folder over.

"Yes, sad business," he answered as he accepted it.

"Your next letter writing campaign?" She inquired. He nodded his head. "Do you think any of them will write back?"

"I never know until I try," he grinned up at her. "That's enough about what I'm up to; we've had all week for that. You've got a lot of driving to do, and I know you won't get away from Jenna nearly as quickly as you think you will. You're going to end up driving in the dark."

"Bye," she offered leaning over to kiss him on the top of the head in turn. "I love you."

"I love you, baby girl."

_A Little More Than One Year Later_

"We didn't want to rush you, honey. You don't need to do this now," her father's secretary meant well with her soft, soothing voice and her attempts to convince her to take more time before she tackled this project. The problem was that Heather needed to be doing something and sorting through the items from her father's office was the something that she had determined was next on her list. She needed to be busy, and she could only spend so much time hunkered down in the Jenkins' garage tinkering on Charlotte until people came by looking for her to express their condolences. If she were doing something a little more serious (like sorting through her father's things), then she wouldn't have to feel guilty if she let Mrs. Jenkins and Jenna tell people that she was in the middle of something and couldn't see them.

Jenna and her grandmother had insisted that she stay with them for the summer before she went back to finish her final year of college, and she wasn't sorry that she had accepted (despite the steady stream of visitors that came with the package). Everything from the house was in storage, and she needed to go through it and whittle down what she was keeping. One of the perils of growing up in a parsonage was that the house went with the job, and she just didn't have a place to keep everything until she felt more up to those kinds of decisions. Likewise, the contents of her father's office were in boxes that the church was graciously keeping for her, but she couldn't take advantage of that forever.

Supposedly everything important to ongoing projects had already been taken out, but she knew her father and his filing system (or lack thereof). If there was something that whoever had done the sorting (likely Mrs. Hicks) had missed, then it might as well get found now.

Her instincts that something would have been overlooked proved correct when she found the file of letters from a prison inmate. She remembered the newspaper clipping that was stapled to the front. One of them had written her father back. It was a private ministry of his - his prison letters. Mrs. Hicks had assured her that all of his correspondents had been informed, but this one had gotten missed somehow. She wasn't sure why she did it. She had been raised to believe that reading other people's letters was a violation of her privacy, but she found herself wanting to remember how good her father had been at people. She had not inherited that particular skill.

The man who had written back to her father had done so antagonistically at first, but the questions had poured out just the same. She wished that she could read her father's replies that had turned the sullen, almost taunting writer of that first letter into the calmer, still questioning, but obviously less angry (apparent even on paper) writer of the later ones. She hoped that the man hadn't thought that her father had abandoned him. It had been six weeks, and (judging from the dates on the letters) theirs had been an almost weekly exchange. She decided that she didn't need to hand this folder over to Mrs. Hicks. She would write the explanation letter herself.

_Dear Mr. Cafferty,_

_I am writing to inform you that my father . . ._

She was kind of shocked when she got the reply. She hadn't expected that, and she would have thought (if she had thought of such a thing) that if she did get one, it would have been a mere thank you for letting me know type of a thing. Instead, she got a sincere letter telling her that he was sorry to hear about her father and how much he appreciated her taking the time to make sure he didn't think that he had been forgotten. Then, he started talking about her dad and how much his letters had meant to him. He wanted her to know just how special her dad had been. She knew that, but it was always nice (especially in this context) to hear that someone else knew that as well. Before she even realized what she was doing, she found herself starting a letter back.

_Dear Mr. Cafferty,_

_I know I'm not my father, and I couldn't hope to be as . . ._

The letters kept coming and going even after she went back to school. He was fascinated (or claimed to be) by her stories about college, and they exchanged tips about fixing cars in between the asking of questions of the kind that he used to write to her dad. She knew she wasn't doing nearly as good of a job with them as he would have done, but she did her best. Sometimes, they ended up trying to figure out the answers together.

_Dear Mitch,_

_You'll never guess where I just got offered a teaching position._

_Dear Heather,_

_Are you serious?_

_Dear Mitch,_

_I think I'm going to like it here. I wasn't so sure about the whole small town thing, but . . ._

_Dear Heather,_

_I spent my entire life dreaming of getting out of Jericho. This wasn't really what . . ._

_Dear Mitch,_

_I survived my first week of teaching with most of my hair still attached to my head. There's something about knowing that you're all on your own with no one to turn to in that classroom . . ._

_Dear Heather,_

_I would tell you that you get the same sort of feeling the first time you get sent out on your first solo job, but you probably don't want to hear it._

_Dear Mitch,_

_Have you thought about it at all?_

_Dear Heather,_

_When I first got here, I didn't really think I had any other options but to wait out my time and go back to Jonah when I got out. Now . . ._

_Dear Mitch,_

_You know that whatever you decide . . ._

_Dear Heather,_

_I do know that, and it means a lot._

When the bus stopped just outside of the city limits to disgorge the single passenger with his duffle bag, there was only one other person in sight. The petite brunette sitting on the tailgate of the well weathered pickup truck smiled brightly and started to hop down before something seemed to occur to her. Instead, she slid to her feet slowly and waited for him to come to her.

The bus continued on its way, and the man shifted his bag to the other hand as he made his way in her direction.

"Hi," she offered her smile faltering a bit as if she were no longer quite sure of herself. He read her hesitancy and offered her a somewhat unsure smile of his own. They just looked at each other for a few seconds before he offered her his hand.

"Mitchell Cafferty," he told her as his smile shifted from unsure to teasing.

"Heather Lisinski," she replied with a small laugh. "It's nice to actually meet you."


	2. How Mary Never Reacted

Mary

There had been no greeting when he came home (she so enjoyed the fact that she could use the word home and have it apply to the both of them). That was the first thing that tipped her off to the fact that something (well, there were a lot of things that were wrong, but other than the usual world tumbling down around their ears situation) was wrong. He always kissed her first thing when he got back - whether they were in her apartment or down in the bar or even ran into each other out on the street. There was something about finally being out in the open that caused the two of them to relish the ability to express their affection without looking over their shoulders to check who might be watching whenever they saw each other - it was almost like being giddy.

There had been no kiss when he arrived today. There had not even been a hello, a smile, or an acknowledgement that she was even present. She studied his profile from across the room as he went through the motions of removing his jacket and hanging it on the back of a chair. She could not tell what to make of his mood. It was possible that his parents had given him a hard time. He always spent a lot of time fretting about what his dad thought about him. She hoped that Johnston Green hadn't tried to give him some sort of a lecture.

"Hey," she said drawing his attention to the fact that she was waiting on him to say something. He did not respond. He was standing still with his hands balanced over the top of his jacket against the back of the chair as he stared ahead of himself clearly not seeing anything in front of him. She wondered what it was that he was seeing. She wondered what it was that he would be telling her when he finally broke out of it. She wasn't going to stand there and start guessing - it would be silly when she was going to find out soon enough. Besides, whatever it was might be tragic or another complication for them to face or anything along those lines - it wouldn't matter. They would deal with it. She was sure that they could. They were together now - together in the openly together sense of the word. Everyone knew that they were a them, and there was no more hiding or waiting or watching from the background. And now that they were together, there was nothing that the two of them couldn't tackle as a team.

"Hey," he replied blinking in her direction as if he had just broken free of his internal monologue and noticed that she was, in fact, standing only a few feet away.

"What's wrong?" She asked moving closer and leaning up to give him a quick kiss before he answered. He got too broody sometimes; he needed to remember that she was here to help shoulder whatever it was.

He didn't speak for a few minutes. He sighed and ran a hand through his hair before returning it to the back of the chair. He sort of sank against the bracing of his hands as if they were the only thing keeping him from giving in and letting his legs crumple under him. She ran a soothing hand up and down his back while she waited for him to find whatever words he was trying to find. He didn't look sad she decided - it was more as though something had rattled him.

"April's pregnant," he blurted out just when she thought he might actually be drifting to sleep standing in front of her.

"Oh," she replied. That was not what she expected. She understood that that wouldn't be news that Eric expected to hear, but was it really cause for him to look quite as thrown by the news as he did? After all, it would be a little hypocritical of him to be angry if April had gone looking for someone that made her happy. He had done the same. Really, after he got over the initial surprise of the unexpectedness of it (Mary had had no idea of such a thing herself, but April's activities hadn't been at the top of her list of things to pay attention to), he would see that this was a good thing.

He had found happiness with her; April had found happiness with someone else. His parents might still be a little miffed at the sort of under the table way that it had all come about (Mary couldn't really blame them for that; they were, after all, correct that there were better ways for them all to have gone about the whole thing), but they couldn't act like Eric was some . . . well, they couldn't justify acting toward Eric the way that they seemed to be.

None of which really explained how off Eric looked. He hadn't spoken again during any of the time that she had spent thinking things through, and he didn't look as if his tension level had ratcheted down any. There was obviously something else, but she sure didn't have any idea what it might be.

"Eric?" She asked carefully wondering if there was something other than April that he still needed to say.

"She didn't even tell me herself," he said in a tone that she couldn't quite place. If this were turning into some sort of male ego thing, she was going to . . .

"Dad was the one who told me," he added. "She said that she didn't want it to factor into my decision." He shook his head while Mary tried to make his words make sense within the context of the situation that she was still operating inside. "That's finally something that the two of us are on the same page about," he muttered. "A child doesn't fix anything. It's most definitely not a reason to stay together."

Mary's stomach dropped out, and her hand dropped from where it had still been resting between Eric's shoulder blades. She took a step back as she tried to wrap her head around the implications of his words.

"Wait," she told him still hoping that there was something, anything that she had missed in those sentences that was making her think something that was not what he really had been saying (couldn't possibly be what he was really saying). "Are you saying that April is pregnant with your baby?" She asked (her voice cracking a little under the strain as she mentally begged him to look at her like she was insane while he cleared up her misconception).

"Of course it's my baby," he was turning around and looking at her like she had said something insane, but he wasn't calling her out on a misconception. "Who else would it belong to?"

The crack echoed in the sudden stillness of the room before Eric began yelling.

"What was that?" He hollered at her (the words loud despite the muffling of his hands clutching at his face and the blood running through his fingers).

Her fist dropped back to her side - the sting in her knuckles barely registering over the sudden rage that was welling up in her directed at the man standing there looking at her like he was the injured party in this scenario.

"What was that?" She echoed. "What was that?" She demanded. "That was me punching you in the face, you cheating, lying . . .," she trailed off as the words she was using actually registered. Her voice gave way to a pained laugh that she was having difficulty trying to control. This might be what it was like to be hysterical was a thought that flashed across her head, but the unnatural laughter continued on unabated.

"You're a cheater," she repeated managing the words through the laughter. "You're a cheater, and I'm stupid." She continued as the laughter cut itself off just as quickly as it had originally started. "Why should I be anything special?" She asked more to herself than to him even though the words were spoken out loud.

"How many times, Eric?" She demanded in a voice that was deadly calm. "How many times did you spin me the story about how you and April were married in name only? How many times did you tell me that the two of you lived completely separate lives - that you barely saw each other? How many times did you actually go from my bed back to hers and vice versa? Or do you not even have a count because it wasn't anything out of the norm for you?"

He just stood there looking at her with shocked eyes as the blood continued to drip between the fingers clutching at his nose. She couldn't detect a trace of guilt or concern or any emotion of the type in his eyes. There was nothing there but shock that she had hit him and an obvious expression that told her that he had no idea why she was upset or what her ranting spiel was even about.

"Get out of my home," she declared lifting a shaking hand to point at the door. "And don't come back."


	3. How Heather Never Saw Roger

How Heather Never Saw Roger

"Is there anything you want before we get started," the woman asked her with the tired smile of someone who was still trying to be helpful even though they had had variations on the same conversation over and over again all day long.

"I'd really like to go home," Heather told her giving a small smile in answer to the woman's own expression.

"Isn't your home some sort of a war zone right now?" The woman lifted an eyebrow (Heather noticed that her nametag read Anne).

"I don't know," Heather admitted. "Nobody will tell me anything."

"Well, you can hardly consider yourself high up on the need to know chain when it comes to military operations, can you?" Anne told her sounding as if she might be getting a little testy. Heather could not really blame her for that. Complaints about a lack of information were probably what Anne spent most of her day listening to from the people who came through her station to be registered. It was not Anne's fault that she did not have more to tell them. The momentarily cross expression lifted from Anne's face as the tired smile returned. "How about we start with some water? Then, we'll get you all logged into the system."

Heather nodded her head, and Anne bustled out of her cubicle only to return a few seconds later with a bottle of water which she placed on the desk that rested between them. She, obviously, had not needed to travel very far to retrieve it. Heather spent the time while Anne was getting situated to do the math in her head. There were easily twelve cubicles (possibly fifteen as she could not tell for sure whether there was another row behind the last partition) like Anne's in the space. There were a steady stream of people being directed to one or another of them (and had been for the whole time that Heather had been waiting in the line outside which she was guessing had been about two hours). That was a lot of people going through (especially as she had heard one of the people with a walkie talkie keeping an eye on the line report in from "center seven."

The room in which she found herself sitting was one that she strongly suspected had once been the exercise room of the once upon a time hotel that she had been sent to for what the man who had escorted her referred to as "processing." The word left an uneasy feeling in the pit of Heather's stomach, but she supposed that that might have been because she was still feeling so out of sorts about everything that had happened in New Bern. She shuddered involuntarily. The people at the base where she woke had not been able to tell her anything about Nicole or Erin. They could only tell her that she had been found injured by a patrol group and brought in alone. She did not want to know what that meant, but she did.

"Spelling," Anne was saying across from her (and Heather got the distinct impression that she was giving her that prompt for the second time).

She dutifully rattled off the appropriate spelling for her last name as well as the answers to all the other questions that Anne had for her (age, place of residence, location of last driver's license renewal, etc.). There was not anything out of the ordinary about any of it, but there was still something about the click of the keys as Anne entered all of the answers into Heather's electronic file that failed to assist the uneasiness that she just could not seem to shake.

She would not have been able to voice a reason for it, and she most definitely would not be trying to voice her apprehension to anyone here in any case. They had really been nothing but nice to her from the moment she had woken. From the medics in the infirmary to the officers at the base, there was not a single person who had not tried to reassure her that she was safe now. Even Anne was trying her best to be pleasant and understanding when she had every reason to be tired and crabby.

Heather had just been unable to shake the sense of something being deeply wrong from the moment that she had seen the flag flying over the base as the soldiers began to move out to intercede in the coming bloodshed between New Bern and Jericho.

"You did say Jericho, Kansas, didn't you?" Anne was asking as she looked at her screen.

"Yes," Heather answered breaking away from her internal pondering of whether or not the fighting would have already started by the time they had gotten there.

"Well, you may not be able to go home yet," Anne told her with a smile that seemed to have been kicked up a notch in its intensity (genuine, Heather realized, rather than the kindly meant polite one that she had been giving her since she had sat down). "But, I may be able to give you a little piece of home."

Heather blinked at her in confusion.

"Tell me, dear; did you happen to know a Roger Hammond back in that little town of yours?"

(!) (!) (!)

It was not until the next morning that Heather found herself standing in front of what had once been (in the time before the city of Cheyenne had become the seat of the government with its turned to the side flag) the door to a college dorm room (the dorm was now housing for the refugees who were flooding the city).

When she had finally wrapped her head around the name that Anne had told her, she had somehow managed to sputter out (instead of merely saying that she did know Roger) that she was supposed to be the maid of honor at his wedding. Anne had not seemed to think that it was over sharing. She had clicked away happily at her keys and commented that she really enjoyed being able to help things work out so well. She had proceeded to inform Heather that there was a space available in the same housing unit to which Roger was assigned where she could be placed and had been handing Heather her post processing information by the time Heather tried to say anything else.

Her post processing information consisted of an ID, a housing assignment card, what Heather could only term a ration book, and a list of three addresses. Anne explained that her ID should be carried on her person at all times (and strongly suggested that she do the same with her ration book) and that the addresses were places that she should check in with the next day to see about the possibility of work. The term processed still evoked unpleasant connotations in Heather's head, but she could not argue the suitability of the word for what the workers at the center were doing.

Roger, Anne had told her, would be found one floor up from where she would be staying. She was, Anne had mentioned with a pretense of whispering, not strictly supposed to give out such information, but everyone knew how anxious people were to be connected with people that they were missing. Thus, those in her department tried to place people close to each other whenever some sort of a connection could be found.

"We've all been a little out of sorts," the woman had told her making Heather nearly choke on the water she had just taken a sip of before Anne had spoken. "Out of sorts" seemed a "little" inadequate in Heather's opinion. "These little touches help everyone understand that it's all getting better now," she finished.

Heather had been required to wait in another section of the hotel until someone was available to escort her and others who had been assigned to the same general vicinity to the places that all the workers in the building kept referring to as their new homes. Heather found the use of the term a little grating. She wanted to be going home, but she was, instead, being sent off to a repurposed dorm room that she would be sharing with a middle aged woman who had greeted her with nothing more than a "didn't figure that they would let me keep the place to myself for very long" before rolling over and going back to sleep (it had been a long day of waiting at processing, and Heather had been the last of her escort's charges to be dropped off only to spend another half hour listening to the housing manager go over the rules and regulations of the housing complex).

It had been pitch black outside by the time she had finally been offered a key and shown to the room that was hers. She could not really blame her roommate for a grumpy response to being woken, and she had done her best to spread out the sheet and blanket that had been a part of the bundle the housing manager had handed her over the bed she had been pointed to in the dark so as not to disturb her further. In truth, she had been too tired to do much of anything else, and the rest of the bundle found a place pushed underneath the bed to be examined later while she kicked off her shoes and curled up on the mattress to try to get some sleep.

Her last thought before she drifted off was that this was not home. This was just a place to sleep until they decided it was safe enough to lift the travel restrictions that had been placed on her part of Kansas.

Roger, however, was a piece of home. She could not, for the life of her, think of any reason for Roger to be here in Cheyenne. He should have been safe (or as safe as anyone in Jericho could be with New Bern looking to slice up the community like a Thanksgiving turkey) at home with Emily. She had been telling herself that from the moment she had been woken by her roommate stirring around and then getting ready at the first sight of dawn. The woman left without saying anything to her, and Heather waited impatiently for the sun to be truly up before she went marching up to knock on what was supposedly Roger's door.

She had been standing there for nearly five minutes (still in the t-shirt and scrub bottoms that the medics had dressed her in back at the base) trying to decide what she would say after Roger answered whenever she finally got around to knocking.

"Whoa," a voice greeted her as the decision was taken out of her hands when the door swung open to reveal a boy who looked to be in his late teens about to run her over where she stood. "Lost?" He asked her. "Dylan's actually down the other end of the hall. I've got to say though that you really shouldn't bother," his voice was one part teasing layered over top one part sincerely meant advice. "He's a lot more trouble than he's worth, and he's not so great about keeping those promises that he's always making."

"Umm . . .," Heather found herself saying. That was a complete departure from any conversation she had been plotting out in her head. "I was actually looking for Roger Hammond?" She tried realizing that she sounded a lot more like she was asking him a question than as if she was explaining her reason for hovering outside of his door.

"Seriously?" The teen asked her. "That's a first," he commented when (unsure of what else she should do) she nodded her head in reply. "Roger," he called over his shoulder into the room in a sing-song voice. "There's a girl here to see you."

"It's too early for your jokes, Jon," a voice (one she definitely recognized as Roger's) answered back sounding half asleep. She heard the sound of some shuffling before another figure appeared in the doorway. "Get to work before you get a citation for being late."

"School's out and I still have to worry about tardies," the boy muttered before making a hand gesture toward where Heather was still standing. "But, really, you have a visitor." Roger, for the first time, actually looked out into the hall.

"Heather?" He stammered sounding as if he half thought that his eyes were playing tricks on him.

"Roger," the teen chided clicking his tongue. "You've been holding out on me. You didn't tell me that you actually knew people." A quick glare from Roger caused him to stop talking.

"It really is you," Heather commented still trying to work her thoughts around to the point that they would not interfere with carrying out a coherent conversation. "I thought they must have made some sort of a mistake when they told me, but you're actually here." She spoke so quickly that she found herself taking a huge breath at the end of her sentence. "But I don't understand," she continued when her lungs were full again. "What happened? How did you get here? Where's Emily?"

A cloud seemed to pass over the man's face.

"Yeah, I'm definitely getting the this is a private conversation vibe here, so I'm just going to take my leave. Heather, was it?" He requested clarification but kept talking before either of the other people standing in the hallway had a chance to reply. "I hope I'll see you around." He took off down the hall at a jog (whether prompted by the sudden awkward atmosphere in the hall or by the fact that he was running late as Roger had earlier implied was something Heather did not make the effort to guess).

"You should come in," Roger told her. "I would say that it's great to see you, but people ending up here usually means that something has gone very, very wrong."

(!) (!) (!)

"You could come with me," she tried again. She did not really believe that this time would prove any more successful that the last four occasions on which she had tried to have the same conversation.

"You know that I can't," he told her sternly. "I'm banished, remember?"

"Things are different now," she kept trying. There was something about the thought of giving in on this without a fight that just did not set right.

"No, Heather, they are not. Nothing has changed the fact that I shot Anderson. Nothing is ever going to change that fact. I got kicked out, and they weren't wrong to do it. How are they supposed to keep order if they let someone who tried to use a hostage situation to force his will on the town have no repercussions?" He gave her a smile that she did not like to see. It was almost pitying. "There's no going back, Heather - not for me. If you think there is for you, then I'm happy for you that you're getting the chance."

"What about Emily?" She insisted.

"What about Emily?" He repeated and that pitying smile was firmly back in place. "The databases will go into town with J&R. She'll be able to look for me if she wants to."

"What are you saying?" She questioned sounding wary of the answer she might be getting.

"That I would appreciate that you don't mention seeing me when you get back to Jericho. I know I don't have any basis of a right to ask that from you, but I'm still asking."

"I don't understand," she insisted.

"I'm gone," he told her with a hint of harshness seeping into his voice. "I'm gone from her world, and I can't come back. The last thing she needs is an upending of whatever she's put back together for herself or to feel like she's got some sort of an obligation to me when I'm never going to be back to where she is."

"But if she looks . . ."

"If she walks up to the J&R station and puts in a people search request on me, then you can tell her anything you like." He smiled at her (a genuine one rather than the pitying facsimile this time). "Don't look so down, Heather. You've been a broken record since day one about how you just want to go home. You're getting your chance. We don't all get that you know. Cheer up. There's a couple dozen people in this building who will never see home again because that home got wiped out of existence. They're building lives here - a new home. I'm doing the same, and I've made my peace with that. Don't go getting all emotional on my behalf." He reached out to draw her into a hug as she sniffled a bit before he held her at arm's length and looked at her with a serious expression. "You be careful," he admonished her. "You saw what the safety assessment for the region said. Things may be calmer, but they aren't anywhere near back to good yet. There are people around who think they have got a reason to be mad at you. Don't do anything else to draw their attention."


	4. How Cornman Never Faced the Ants

This story tags back to my one shot "Stanley Richmond, Comic Book Icon." It will make sense more quickly if you have read that one, but I think you can puzzle it out either way. Someone asked to see more of Stanley in that role. This seemed like a good place to do that.

This piece comes under the heading of humor/parody.

**How Cornman Never Faced the Ants**

"Cornman? This is HQ. I'm going to need you to return to town immediately."

"What? I've almost got these guys! We've been after this road gang for weeks!"

"We've got a bigger problem - a way bigger problem on our hands. The road gang is going to have to wait."

"I'm seriously minutes away from shutting this thing down for good here, HQ. Can't whatever it is wait?"

"That would be a no. There is a reason that I said immediately."

"What kind of problem are we talking about?"

"This would be the kind that requires a really good exterminator."

"The giant irradiated ants followed Jake home, didn't they?"

"It looks that way."

"How many times have you told him to watch out for those?"

"His listening skills leave something to be desired. The sooner you get back here the better."

"I'm on my way."

Fifteen Minutes Later

"Are you seeing what I'm seeing, HQ?"

"I do have a visual on the area, Cornman."

"Have you noticed that there are not just a couple of these things? There's a whole line of them! I can't even see the end!"

"Well, that would be consistent with normal ant behavior. After all . . ."

"This is not the time for a science lesson!"

"Sorry."

"What's Electra Babe's ETA?"

"She's not on her way."

"Why not? Where is she?"

"She's got detention duty this afternoon."

"Are you kidding me?"

"There's a rotation."

"I'm thinking the miles long line of giant ants headed for town are probably a more pressing issue than some kids who got too many late slips this week. Can't she get here?"

"Not without compromising her identity."

"The entire town already knows her identity, Heather! I cannot handle this on my own. Get me some back up out here!"

"I'm on it."

"I'll start slinging some silk - see if I can slow them down."

Two Hours Later

"That's really just disgusting."

"Crisped insects are considered a perfectly normal food source in some cultures."

"Um . . . ew."

"You can't be suggesting that we . . ."

"Well, she does have a point. I mean, we can't just leave them out here, can we?"

"Weren't you the one who just said 'ew' like three seconds ago?"

"That was a knee jerk reaction."

"It was the right knee jerk reaction. They are ants in case you didn't notice that during the slow but steady march toward the doom of the town that we just witnessed."

"That we just stopped."

"That was a nice display of teamwork by the way."

"Thanks, HQ. They are made of meat, you know that right?"

"I'm going to repeat your earlier assessment of the situation . . . um . . . ew."

"Well, they are. Besides, if you stop to think about it, is it really that much different from reopening the Pizza Garden?"

"I can't even begin to tell you how much it bothers me that I can't really argue that point. Maybe we could trade them to New Bern for some windmills?"

"Guys!"

"What's up, HQ?"

"As intriguing as this little discussion of yours is, these were irradiated ants - don't you think that could be problematic?"

"This was your idea in the first place."

"All I did was make a comment about how some people eat bugs. I did not suggest that we take up the practice."

"Stanley got irradiated in that rain."

"Well, yeah, but what does that have to do with . . ."

"Oh, I see where you're going with that. He got super powers."

"They are powers; the super part might be up for debate."

"Hey!"

"I'm just saying that it worked out okay for him."

"I'm not sure that Stanley's reaction to radiation should be used as a baseline."

"I can hear everything the two of you are saying over the com. Did you forget that?"

One Week Later

"Why are you loading cans of gas into the car, Jake?"

"Oh, hey Cornman, I just realized that it's been a while since we sent anyone out to gather information. I thought I would make a run and see how things seem to be going out there."

"No!"

"Wow, there's no need to be so loud, HQ. You're going to blow out the earpiece."

"Just tell him no!"

"Um . . . do you really think that's such a good idea, Jake?"

"Someone's got to do it. Why not me?

"Yeah, about that. Here's the thing, Jake. Any time you get any distance away from Jericho, something always follows you home."

"It does not."

"Do you not remember that invading army from New Bern?"

"That was not my fault. They were coming anyway."

"There have been other . . . incidents."

"Like what?"

"Those fighter planes? That Maggie woman from the fake marines? That duck that thought you were its mother? That, by the way, was completely hilarious. That St. Bernard puppy that peed all over your mother's carpets? Ravenwood?"

"Okay, okay. I get your point, but . . ."

"Giant. Irradiated. Ants."

"Oh, come on - what are the odds of something like that happening again?"

"Giant. Irradiated. Ants."

"I'm just going to unload the car."

"Good call."

"I'll see you at Bailey's later?"

"I'll be there. HQ?"

"Yes?"

"The crisis has been averted."

"Way to save the day."

"I have my moments."


End file.
